


louder than bombs

by i_feel_electric



Category: Big Bang (Band), GTOP (Band), K-pop
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance, bartender!jiyong, chaerin shows up for a hot second, i'm really gross and i'm not sorry, mentions of recreational drug use, painter!seunghyun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 16:33:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8540386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_feel_electric/pseuds/i_feel_electric
Summary: "Seunghyun pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. Bass-heavy house music has been literally throbbing into his apartment for the last two hours, accompanied by loud voices and drunken laughter, and he can’t deal. Can’t hear himself think. He couldn’t even go to sleep if he wanted to, which he doesn’t, and being robbed of the option altogether is making him grumpier with each passing second."noisy neighbors au. seunghyun is a reclusive painter whose peaceful way of life is interrupted by the party hardy kids that move in upstairs. little does he know that one of those pesky rapscallions already holds the key to his cranky, old man heart.





	

**Author's Note:**

> probably a bit more involved than you were looking for, op. but i hope you still like it <3
> 
> special thanks to my loves j & k for helping me through this one. not my best work. still proud of myself for finishing it.

Warm, muddled black; a swirl of blue and green; pink bleeding into dusky purple cut through with slices of yellow and white. Up close, it looks like nothing. Thick paint smeared over the canvas in a mess of arcs and curls. Seunghyun gets up from his stool and stands at the other end of the room, rolling the brush between his stained fingers, dissatisfied. It doesn’t have enough depth. The contrast isn’t as strong as he needs it to be. He wants to feel like he could fall inside if he got anywhere near the canvas. Like the giant peony petals would swallow him whole as soon as he looked away.

 

Seunghyun squints at the painting and sighs, thoughts interrupted by the clomp of footsteps in the apartment above his. Something heavy hits the floor, followed by a muffled curse and the call of another voice out in the stairwell. He hasn’t seen the new tenants yet, just the U-Haul truck parked in front of the building. But he doesn’t need to know who they are to know that he already misses when the unit was empty.

 

Walking back towards his work table, Seunghyun sets the brush down beside the others, deciding that he desperately needs a cigarette at the same time someone knocks on his door. He sighs again and wipes his hands off on his dirty jeans before padding down the hallway to answer.

 

“Ahoy, sailor!” Olivia almost shouts, eyes brighter than the exciting shade of her pink lipstick.

 

“Who let you in?” Seunghyun asks and then grimaces when she kisses his cheek and traipses past him like she owns the damn place.

 

“The pretty children moving into your building,” she replies. “You did know you had new neighbors, right?”

 

He shuts the door and turns, watching Olivia pour herself onto one of the old couches in the living room. “I was aware.”

 

“So you’ve seen them,” she states, and Seunghyun doesn’t like the impish smirk playing at the edge of her mouth.

 

“Not exactly.”

 

Olivia raises both of her immaculately plucked eyebrows, suddenly fascinated by the throw pillow closest to her.

 

“Ah.”

 

“What?” he asks. Or demands. Getting a straight answer is often impossible when she wants to fuck with him.

 

“Oh, nothing,” Olivia hedges.

 

Seunghyun rolls his eyes and moves further into the room.

 

“Olive, c’mon.”

 

But she moves quickly, this one--lunging for her bag and whipping out a dark bottle. “Look, I brought wine!” Olivia blurts happily.

 

“There is a god,” he smiles and takes it from her, the question temporarily forgotten. “I was running low.”

 

She beams. “You’re welcome.”

 

“Sit on the porch with me, I need to smoke or I’m gonna stab something,” Seunghyun murmurs, already making his way down the hall and into the kitchen while Olivia scrambles to her feet behind him.

 

“Work not going well?” she asks.

 

He sighs for a third time, which should tell her everything, because she’s good at that. Finding novels in the way someone moves, speaks, laughs. Seunghyun realizes he relies too heavily on her perception whenever he doesn’t want to talk about something and decides, in the end, that he can live with having this conversation.

 

“I just don’t know why I agreed to do this stupid show,” he answers absently, grabbing the wine opener from the cabinet.

 

Olivia pats him on the back. “Exposure, sweetheart.”

 

“Well, yeah.”

 

“And,” she adds, arm looping through his. “No one says no to Marlon.”

 

“He’s fucking Looney Tunes,” Seunghyun laughs, and together they stumble outside into the humid afternoon.

 

“I mean, seriously,” he continues, sitting in the closest tattered armchair against the wall. “This is like, high school art club bullshit. Who themes an art show on _the beauty of nature_? If I wanted to look at tacky landscapes, I’d go watch Bob Ross reruns.”

 

“Hey!” Olivia protests, a frown marring her face as she plops into the next chair over. “I love Bob Ross.”

 

He throws her a withering glance. “I wasn’t insulting _him_.”

 

“Jesus, don’t be such a grumpy gus, Seunghyun,” she chides. “If Marlon didn’t have any taste, he wouldn’t have asked you in the first place.”

 

“Thank you.” Seunghyun huffs, pulling out his cigarettes and folding his legs up onto the cushion as he lights one. “But I’d still rather be working on my own shit,” he mutters.

 

Olivia shakes her head. “You’re a brat, you know that? Some of us actually have to bust our asses for a living,” she grumbles, handling the wine, because she’s good at that, too.

 

“Excuse me for wanting to enjoy what I do,” he argues, taking another drag.

 

“I think I liked you better before you inherited all that money,” she muses. The cork pops out and she tosses the opener aside, drinking right from the bottle.

 

Seunghyun grins. “No, I was still a dick when I was broke.”

 

She chuckles, passing it over to him.

 

“Must be why I love you so much,” she drawls.

 

“I _am_ very charming,” he agrees. Olivia snorts inelegantly.

 

Bringing the bottle to his lips, he swallows a few mouthfuls and then passes it back, the flavor lingering on his tongue, sharp and smooth all at once. Seunghyun smokes quietly. Olivia drinks and checks her phone. He scratches at a splatter of blue paint on the side of his foot, thinking about how much he likes this--heavy summer air, excellent company, doing nothing to a soundtrack of city noises. Seunghyun spends so much time painting, he rarely gives himself the time to breathe. Breathing is kind of important, isn’t it?

 

Olivia giggles at something on her Facebook feed and he’s in the process of opening his mouth to ask what’s so funny when a burst of laughter explodes above them, more footsteps clomping across the deck.

 

“Dude, don’t forget the bowl! We need to christen every fucking inch of this apartment.” It’s a girl’s voice. Low and melodic and full of humor. There’s another that responds, but it’s too distant to hear the words.

 

Seunghyun quirks an eyebrow at Olivia and leans closer. “Is it right to assume that I’ve officially been graced by the presence of stoner party kids?” he asks softly.

 

She tilts her head from side to side, deliberating.

 

“I’d say that’s a pretty fair assumption, yeah.”

 

“How many?”

 

“Three,” Olivia replies, turning back to her phone.

 

He pokes her in the arm. “ _And_? That’s it?”

 

“I’m not doing your recon for you, asshole. I don’t live here,” she murmurs, but she’s smirking in that way he hates, because she knows something and she’s not telling him.

 

“You definitely act like it sometimes,” Seunghyun scoffs. He steals the wine bottle, taking a giant swig. “Are you sure you don’t wanna say anything else?”

 

Olivia’s eyes narrow into slits. “Mmm, pretty sure.”

 

“Fine.” He stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray, perhaps a little more aggressively than he would otherwise. “How are Fred and Ginger?”

 

That gets her spark going again, face lighting up like a goddamn firework. It reminds him that Olivia hasn’t sat for him in a while and he should rectify this, because he misses it. Misses her being around constantly. Misses how easy it is to paint the magnitude of her personality. Seunghyun likes being a shut-in, but that doesn’t mean he never feels nostalgia for how things used to be.

 

It’s okay, though. He can do without _used-to-be_ , since _used-to-be_ was, honestly, pretty shit, and this is a lot better. Even if he does get lonely sometimes.

 

Seunghyun quickly pushes the thought away, grinning as Olivia rambles on and on about her adorably neurotic dogs. They stay out on the porch for a few hours, talking and not talking, and while he does his best to remain present and attentive, he only manages about 95%. Because the other 5% can’t tune out the unfamiliar sounds coming from unfamiliar bodies upstairs. Or stop wondering why Olivia was being so evasive.

 

She leaves before the sun begins to set, giving him a fierce hug and two more bottles of cabernet she’d kept hidden in her bag. Seunghyun brings both into the studio with him, trying not to scowl when he remembers how much work he still has to do.

 

Standing at the far end of the room, he stares at the giant 8’ x 11’ canvas--sees nothing but flaws and missing pieces. It’s not the end of the world, he just needs to get in the zone and get it done. So Seunghyun uncorks bottle number one, turns on some Marvin Gaye, and picks up the closest paintbrush.

 

“I’m gonna make you my bitch,” he whispers at the painting, hunching forward on his stool, laughing at himself.

 

But the instant soft bristles and pigment meet fabric, the rest of the world melts away into nothing. Seunghyun’s mind shuts down. All he knows is warm, muddled black; a dash of blue, then green, and the perfectly fat strokes of dusky purple, cut through with slices of yellow and white.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


In his not-at-all limited experience living in this city, Seunghyun has grown accustomed to certain patterns. Patterns like the types of people who gravitate towards specific neighborhoods. The consistent inconsistency of public transportation. Traffic during rush hour, street festivals in the summer, how much the cost of living goes up every year. Those things rarely change and he’s gotten used to their permanent position in the background of his existence.

 

Something else that rarely changes is the behavior of his neighbors. People are usually friendly, but distant. Or totally dismissive, which he prefers, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Seunghyun doesn’t want to be friends with the young, happy-go-lucky couple across the hall who never clean up their dog’s crap from the front yard. He doesn’t want to be friends with the three guys who live below him, because he’s pretty sure they’re all fantasy football-playing, Miller Lite guzzling ex-jocks and he had enough of that in college. Everyone else is more or less a blur of late 20-somethings pretending to have their shit together, and Seunghyun knows enough about that, that he doesn’t need to hear it from anyone else.

 

The point here, is that--as far as he’s concerned--they all reside safely within their own little bubbles and those bubbles almost never overlap. Or they didn’t, until the trio of stoner party kids moved into #301 and forcefully insinuated themselves into his without permission. Which is just rude, honestly.

 

Seunghyun pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. Bass-heavy house music has been literally throbbing into his apartment for the last two hours, accompanied by loud voices and drunken laughter, and he can’t deal. Can’t hear himself think. He couldn’t even go to sleep if he wanted to, which he doesn’t, and being robbed of the option altogether is making him grumpier with each passing second.

 

Who the fuck throws a party on a Monday night, anyway?

 

Glass breaks out on the deck a moment later and everyone cheers. Seunghyun groans quietly into his hands and realizes that he’s probably going to have to be That Guy. Because he’s 28 going on 80 and gosh darnit, these rowdy-ass children will not be tolerated. Too bad he doesn’t own a shotgun.

 

Scrubbing at his face, he walks out of his studio and then out of his apartment, jogging barefoot up the stairs and grimacing when the bass starts to rattle his brain. Then Seunghyun pounds on the door before he can chicken out.

 

A minute or two ticks by. The door vibrates in time with the beat but doesn’t open and he tries again, even though he doubts they’d hear a fucking bomb go off. He wants to know why no one else in this building has come raging up the stairs. Surely he isn’t the only one with ears. Or better taste in music.

 

Seunghyun sighs, giving it one more shot and knocking so hard the door rattles on its hinges. But the only thing he gets in response is the promise of a life haunted by generic, EDM trap garbage.

 

 _Wonderful_ , he thinks, raking a hand through his hair. Maybe he can come back during the day. Or maybe he’ll get drunk enough that he won’t care anymore. He whines out a laugh at how unlikely that is and turns to leave at the same time a wave of sound floods the hallway. Seunghyun blinks, momentarily stunned. Not because of the music, but because the music brought something with it--a sudden burst of color. Pale, ruffled platinum; charcoal, burnt sienna, rose.

 

His heart flounders a bit in answer. Time seems to warp slightly and slow down as the burst of colors moves closer, soft mouth curling into an inviting smile as he pulls the door closed behind him. Seunghyun feels like he’s been assaulted. He feels betrayed. He’s definitely entertaining the thought of murdering his best friend and wondering whether or not he can get away with it.

 

“Hi,” the boy greets.

 

Seunghyun’s ears are ringing a little and he can’t stop staring. “Uh...hi.”

 

Dark brown eyes gradually drag over him from head to toe, rose petal lips stretching across the boy’s face when he notices Seunghyun’s bare feet.

 

“You’re clearly not here for the party.”

 

He registers the words and the fact that he should respond to them, but he’s caught up in the low timbre of that voice and how warm it is. Seunghyun adds yellow ochre to the growing list of colors. Umber and amber and a hint of violet. His neighbor raises both eyebrows when he doesn’t say anything. Seunghyun thinks his cheeks must be bright red.

 

“N-no,” he manages, folding his arms over his chest and clearing his throat. “I, um. I live downstairs.”

 

“Oh,” his neighbor replies, eyes quickly widening when he realizes what that means. “ _Oh_.”

 

Seunghyun offers a thin smile and uncrosses his arms, fidgeting in an attempt to maintain focus instead of choosing what colors he’d use to paint all that golden skin.

 

“Yeah. I know you just moved in and everything, but I was trying to get some work done.”

 

“It’s almost 3AM, what the hell are you working on?” his neighbor asks, amused.

 

“Painter.” Seunghyun gestures at the myriad splatters on his white t-shirt. “I keep weird hours. Occupational hazard.”

 

The boy nods, gaze zeroed in on Seunghyun’s stained fingers. He crosses his arms again.

 

“So you want me to turn the music down.”

 

“If--” he stops, huffing out an awkward laugh and shrugging. “If that’s not a problem, yeah.”

 

 _Really givin’ ‘em what for, Seunghyun_. He is baby Simba croaking out his first pathetic and incompetent roar.

 

But the boy just nods again--slouching against the vibrating door with an unfair grace and watching Seunghyun through his platinum fringe.

 

“Sure.”

 

He shifts uncomfortably. “Okay.”

 

“I’m Jiyong, by the way,” his neighbor offers, hand extended.

 

The beat drops as he steps forward to take it and the floor shakes, Jiyong’s fingers squeezing his briefly.

 

“Seunghyun,” he returns unsteadily.

 

An easy smile pulls at Jiyong’s mouth as their hands fall.

 

“I’d ask you if you wanted to come in for a drink, but going in there without shoes on might kill you.”

 

He laughs awkwardly again. “Thanks, but--” Seunghyun jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Work things,” he says, feeling ridiculous and incapable of maintaining eye-contact for more than a few seconds.

 

Jiyong’s lips twitch into a grin. “Right.”

 

Time does that bizarre suspension thing again, stretching out of shape while voices swim in the background. He’s trying to remember the last time he was this inept at talking to another human being and thinks that it’s not entirely his fault when a human like Jiyong is allowed to wander the earth in ripped skinny jeans and soft cotton.

 

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Seunghyun inches in the opposite direction. “Anyway, it was, um, nice. Meeting you. Jiyong,” he fumbles, saluting moronically.

 

Jiyong bites into the swell of yet another smile.

 

“Likewise, Mr. Painter.”

 

He’s down the stairs and back in his apartment before any further brilliance can launch itself out of his stupid, stupid mouth. The throbbing bass dials down a few notches into something tolerable, but Seunghyun can’t even enjoy it, because he’s simultaneously flustered and homicidal, which is a really fucking strange way to feel. He needs wine and nicotine. And to stab Olivia in the face with one of his paintbrushes.

 

“Fucking traitor,” he grumbles quietly, grabbing his phone and the bottle he left on his work table.

 

**[Sent: June 6 3:14AM]**

You are the worst best friend

I’ve ever had

 

 **[Sent: June 6 3:14AM** ]

If I loved you less, I’d ask for

a divorce, because you’re a

disloyal asshole who takes

pleasure in my pain

 

Seunghyun guzzles some of the wine and slumps onto his stool, looking blankly out the window. Olivia will text him back when she wakes up, most likely smug and victorious and teasing, like she usually is when she knows how screwed he is. And he can’t really argue with that.

 

Frowning, Seunghyun abandons the painting and goes outside to smoke. He listens to the voices above him grow dim as people begin to leave and the sky begins to lighten. Occasionally, there’s a peal of deep laughter that makes him think of dancing, charcoal-lined eyes. Seunghyun flicks ash from his cigarette and refuses to imagine what Jiyong’s colors would actually look like smeared all over one of his canvases.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


A couple days later, he learns that the fun doesn’t just stop at dance parties.

 

Seunghyun’s even in bed before sunrise for once, eyelids heavy and limbs slowly turning into sandbags as he flirts with unconsciousness. Except there’s a crash--the wooden gate that leads to the alleyway slamming open and a duo of giggling voices echoing loudly against the building. He groans, burying his face into his pillows, but the noise continues despite attempting to pretend this isn’t happening.

 

“Shut the fuck up, it wasn’t like that at all.”

 

 _Jiyong_ , his brain registers, then the female voice he heard the day they moved in.

 

“Should’ve seen your face,” she wheezes with lazy laughter. “It was-- it was like watching a James Bond movie, but like, gayer. God, so much gayer. The gayest.”

 

A high-pitched yelp carries up from the back stairwell.

 

“Ow! Shit, why are you hitting me?”

 

He hears Jiyong snort, their voices getting louder as they climb. “Because you’re obnoxious.”

 

“Says the one who smooth operator-ed his way into striking out.”

 

“Oh my god, stop.”

 

Seunghyun lifts his head and glares at the window. If there’s a benevolent force in the universe, they’ll disappear inside their apartment and that’ll be the end of it. If, being the key word. He’s not that optimistic.

 

Another clatter--something falling down the stairs.

 

“Fuck, my shoooe,” the girl cries before dissolving into another round of throaty laughter.

 

Footsteps clomp against the wood and then he can hear them out on their deck, knocking shit over and cackling and supporting Seunghyun’s general lack of faith in humanity.

 

“Do you think Sarah’s still up? I meant to text her earlier…” she begins rambling, but he’s not really listening, dragging himself out of bed.

 

Tinny music starts to play, probably from one of their phones, and he rolls his eyes while trudging into the darkened hallway. Seunghyun rubs at his cheeks, hating everything as he fumbles with the back door and blearily makes his way up the stairs. Something about their twin expressions of intoxicated surprise when he appears at the top is incredibly gratifying.

 

As is the view, admittedly, and Seunghyun is groggy enough not to care that he’s staring. Because Jiyong looks disheveled and beautiful--sitting on their ratty couch in a sweaty tank top that hangs loose from his tanned shoulders--and Seunghyun finds that he’s forgotten what it was he wanted to say.

 

Luckily, Jiyong’s roommate is all too happy to fill the awkward silence.

 

“Dude,” she blurts, studying Seunghyun with hooded eyes. “Is this the ho--”

 

But Jiyong quickly lashes out, punching her in the arm.

 

“Eleanor, shut your fucking mouth. Jesus.”

 

Eleanor whines and shoves him back.

 

“Asshole. Stop hitting me.”

 

Ah, yes. Now Seunghyun remembers. He leans against the railing with a sigh. “If you guys are gonna be out here, can you keep it down?”

 

Jiyong whips his head up and at least has the decency to appear chastened. “Sorry. Yeah, of course.”

 

He nods, scratching a hand through his rumpled hair. Jiyong offers an apologetic smile, eyes wandering lower, and Seunghyun chooses not to read into that too much. It’s too late. Or early. Whatever. He’s not cognizant enough for any of this.

 

“Sorry, hot neighbor,” Eleanor drawls, trying and failing to contain her low chuckle as she grins up at him. Beside her, Jiyong tips over to press his face into the couch cushions. “We’ll be quieter, I promise.”

 

 _Hot neighbor_? Heat crawls up the back of his neck and he huffs out a disbelieving laugh.

 

“It’s my fault anyway,” she continues, fingers working slowly but diligently in her lap to pack a glass pipe with weed. “I have, like, zero volume control or spatial awareness.”

 

“Don’t forget tact,” Jiyong’s muffled voice adds.

 

“That too, man. My brain to mouth filter is super fucked.” Eleanor snorts to herself, then gives him another easy smile. “Hey, you wanna smoke with us?”

 

For a second, Seunghyun toys with the idea of saying yes, but thinks better of it. He did the messy college kid thing a lot longer than his four years at school, he doesn’t need to start again.

 

“I appreciate the offer,” he murmurs. “But I should go back to bed.”

 

Eleanor gives him a thumbs up. “Cool.”

 

Seunghyun laughs softly again. “All right,” he says, a little disappointed when Jiyong still doesn’t come out of hiding. “See you around.”

 

“Sweet dreams, hot neighbor,” Eleanor calls after he’s already turned to walk down the stairs.

 

Jiyong practically roars above him in response.

 

“ _Eleanor._ ”

 

“What, dude? You weren’t _wrong_.”

 

In a surreal, half-asleep daze, Seunghyun shuffles into his apartment and belatedly wonders what happened to the comparatively brazen version of Jiyong he met the other night. And also why they couldn’t have come up with anything more inspired than “hot neighbor”.

 

_Kids these days._

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


There’s a part of him that’s starting to believe this might be karma. For being an obnoxious little shit, a menace, an impossible smart-ass. Seunghyun isn’t proud of it, but it happened, and all he can say is that he’s grateful he eventually grew out of it. Ten years too late, maybe. No one’s perfect. He also tries not to keep score, but this last week has honestly got him wondering if someone up there wants to see him suffer.

 

Like the second, third, and fourth encore of that shitty house music invading his apartment and his brain. In the middle of the afternoon, at night, just after most of the building has left for their 9 to 5 grind. The last one makes him suspicious that this is all some evil plot to annoy him to death. Because he’s almost always home, since he doesn’t have a normal job.

 

What’s worse, though, is that Eleanor and her boyfriend engage in offensively loud sex at least once a day. The first time Seunghyun went up there to bitch about it, Jiyong looked just as done. Which was kind of a relief, to learn he wasn’t alone. Even if he did do a top-notch impersonation of the poppies he’d been painting moments before--skin flushing the moment a particularly obscene moan filtered into the hallway. Seunghyun can’t remember the last time he’d been that flustered. Hot and bothered all the way down to his bones, because for a split second he’d let himself imagine what kind of noises Jiyong would make. _Right there_ , with his neighbor standing in front of him looking adorably embarrassed and yet 100% aware of the direction Seunghyun’s brain had plummeted.

 

Unsurprisingly, he’d made an awkward, hasty retreat and vowed never to think about it again. It was a lie, of course. For one, Seunghyun was human. Two, he was a guy. And three, no amount of porn was going to erase the way Jiyong had bitten into his plump bottom lip and smiled, like it was super okay that Seunghyun was thinking about fucking him. That Seunghyun _wanted_ to fuck him.

 

 _God_ , he groans internally, shaking himself back to the present. The poppies stare at him, crushed and crinkled and pathetic from across the studio. He relates. He relates and reminds himself that the last time he got laid was almost a month ago. He also reminds himself that he hasn’t been in a long-term relationship since he was 25. There’s a reason for that.

 

Seunghyun looks down at the paintbrush in his hand, rolling it back and forth in his fingers. When he puts on some classical music and sits on his stool, he doesn’t think about anything and he pretends he doesn’t notice how all of Jiyong’s colors ended up crowding his palette.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


Less than 24 hours later, Seunghyun sits in his studio with his face in his hands, because apparently it’s impossible to go a single day without some new adventure in frustration.

 

Actually, the frustration isn’t all that new, it’s just the source that’s different, and if he knew this would be his life now, he probably wouldn’t have bothered to renew his lease 2 months ago. A voice in the back of his mind tells him he’s a filthy liar, but Seunghyun chooses not to listen.

 

Instead, he listens to the “fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck” that Jiyong chants as he runs past Seunghyun’s front door and clambers down the stairs.

 

A few moments later, the footsteps reverse. The door above him slams and then opens again and as Jiyong proceeds to descend the stairs for round 4, his panicked muttering fills the hallway in a swirl of colorful curses. Seunghyun gave up on concentrating when even music wasn’t enough to drown whatever freakout Jiyong was going through. Especially once the frantic stair-climbing expanded from the back porch to inside.

 

Minus the annoyance, he has to admit that he’s curious. Maybe even a little concerned for his neighbor’s mental well-being. It’s a totally valid reason to hover in his doorway and wait for Jiyong to return. Just to be sure.

 

Jiyong whines a couple floors down, sounding legitimately distressed, and Seunghyun frowns, venturing towards the bannister.

 

“Are you, um--” he clears his throat. “Are you...okay?”

 

“No,” Jiyong almost growls.

 

Seunghyun sees him appear on the landing below, pale hair a mess where his fingers roughly tear through it. He feels sort of bad for being irritated about the noise now, Jiyong’s expression so despondent you’d think someone had died.

 

“Can I ask why you’ve lost your shit?” Seunghyun watches as Jiyong hits the last step and sags next to him on the bannister. For all he knows, someone really did die.

 

“Eleanor’s cat got out, she’s gonna fucking disembowel me,” Jiyong replies sadly.

 

“Oh.”

 

Seunghyun blinks. Seriously? All this racket over a stupid cat? He sighs and Jiyong straightens, turning, eyes wide and hands flying.

 

“I can’t find him anywhere. It’s like he just ninja’d his furball ass into another dimension.”

 

“Right.” Seunghyun nods, because that obviously makes sense.

 

It might be the way Jiyong is, once again, chewing on his lip as he begins pacing the length of the hallway. Or the fact that he looks like he might cry. It might even be that Seunghyun has a heart somewhere in his chest instead of a hunk of coal, but he doesn’t pick one. Only asks, “Do you-- do you want help?”

 

The question stops Jiyong in his tracks, anxious hands falling to his sides. “We’ve done nothing but piss you off and you wanna help me?” he huffs.

 

So, he noticed that. Seunghyun laughs slightly and shrugs, ignoring the growing smile on those particular lips.

 

“The sooner we find the cat, the sooner you’ll stop making so much noise.”

 

Jiyong snorts, cocking a finger gun at him.

 

“Smart man.”

 

“Easily annoyed man,” Seunghyun corrects.

 

A shy grin pulls at Jiyong’s mouth. “Yeah, I figured that one out.”

 

“Which is why you keep being annoying.”

 

“Maybe,” Jiyong answers. His grin is definitely a smirk now. “Maybe it’s just an excuse to talk to you.”

 

Seunghyun narrows his eyes and crosses his arms, because that might be the dumbest excuse he’s ever heard. “There’s a real cat, right?” he has to ask. “You’re not just fucking with me.”

 

“You think I really love running up and down stairs?” Jiyong counters, laughing.

 

He shrugs again.

 

“I don’t know what you love.”

 

Stepping closer, Jiyong tilts his head, expression softening in a way that Seunghyun immediately wants to commit to canvas.

 

“You could ask.”

 

There’s heat blooming in his cheeks as he stares back and he curses himself for being so weak. For being drawn to the sly amusement in Jiyong’s gaze. It hints at an intelligence Seunghyun isn’t so sure he wants to be real, because that, above all else, would be the nail in his fuck-my-life coffin.

 

“Let’s find the fluffy ninja first,” he mutters.

 

Jiyong twinkles at him briefly and Seunghyun wonders if he’s telepathic.

 

They don’t find the cat on any of the lower floors, though. Their front entrance has two doors, so the likelihood of it getting outside is slim. Slim, but technically not impossible. Yet their search around the perimeter of the building reveals a total lack of fluffy escape artists, and Seunghyun can see the twinkle growing bleaker the longer they remain empty-handed.

 

“Did you try the basement?” he asks, pointedly not checking out Jiyong’s denim-clad ass as they climb the front steps.

 

“Yeah. Didn’t see him.”

 

“Are you sure he’s not just hiding in your apartment somewhere?”

 

Jiyong gives Seunghyun a dry look over his shoulder. “I watched him dart through the door and run down the stairs. So, unless he magically developed the ability to teleport, he has to be somewhere.”

 

“Anything’s possible,” Seunghyun murmurs, making him snort.

 

They’re loitering in the foyer now, Jiyong slouched against the wall of mailboxes while Seunghyun stands across from him, attempting not to let himself feel weird about sort of enjoying this. Whatever this is.

 

“Eleanor would love that. She’d probably train him to bring her burritos from the Mexican restaurant on the corner to avoid leaving the couch.”

 

He chuckles. “Like you wouldn’t?”

  
  


“I’m more of a cheeseburger and curly fries kinda guy,” Jiyong clarifies.

 

Seunghyun nods and files that piece of information away, even though he really shouldn’t. What he should be doing is painting upstairs in his studio, because his deadline is two weeks closer than it was before Jiyong and his friends happened. Before they danced all over his productivity, unleashing the grumpy old man that lives inside of him. He doesn’t feel grumpy now, but he thinks that Jiyong’s array of distracting smiles is the reason, since every time Seunghyun receives one, his brain turns to garbled static.

 

“We should--” he takes a deep breath,”--probably check the basement again.” Anything would be better than helplessly ogling his neighbor like a gigantic creep.

 

Jiyong grins. Seunghyun stares. The world doesn’t go up in flames no matter how much he wants it to.

 

Although he’s pretty close to incinerating, even in the cool, damp air of the communal laundry room. Seunghyun has never been this embarrassing in his entire life.

 

“I really don’t think he’s in here,” Jiyong mumbles, voice echoing as he checks behind one of the washing machines.

 

“Just keep looking. He could be stuck somewhere,” Seunghyun tells him.

 

“Watch it, I might start believing you actually care.”

 

He tosses Jiyong a raised eyebrow and peeks inside a rusting dryer on the other side of the room. “Maybe I love cats.”

 

Jiyong laughs brightly. “Do you?”

 

Before he has the chance to answer, there’s a muffled and slightly desperate meow in the far corner. Seunghyun gets to it first, bending over the back of the ancient utility sink to find a sad, dirty lint monster with eyes.

 

“Is he all right?” Jiyong rushes over, his shoulder digging into Seunghyun’s arm as he tries to see for himself.

 

“I think so.”

 

Levering forward, Seunghyun grunts, reaching down through the cobwebs to grip the scruff of the cat’s neck. It’s heavy as fuck and he almost drops it when it squirms and releases another dejected mewl.

 

“Thank god,” Jiyong sighs.

 

Seunghyun cradles the shaggy half-cat, half-worm in his arms, picking off basement debris from its gray fur. “You’re welcome.”

 

Only when Jiyong throws his head back to bark out a delighted cackle does he realize how close they’re standing. Close enough that Seunghyun is breathing cat hair and dust and the clean, citrus scent of whatever product still clings to Jiyong’s hair. It’s a strange combination. Yet also strangely nice? _Stop being a fucking weirdo, jesus._ He scowls and focuses on the feline curiously peering up at him instead.

 

“What’s his name, anyway?” Seunghyun asks, scratching behind the cat’s ears now that it’s calmed down. “You never said.”

 

“Boris.”

 

His eyebrows furrow. What the hell kind of name is _Boris_ for a cat? Jiyong chuckles, like the expression on his face is the expression on everyone’s face when they find out.

 

“Eleanor’s really into old monster movies, so she named him after Boris Karloff.”

 

“That’s…kind of cute,” he admits. Boris starts purring and Seunghyun can’t stop himself from smiling.

 

“Mhmm,” Jiyong hums absently.

 

Then it’s too quiet--save for the happy, rhythmic cat sounds--so he looks up, and that’s a huge mistake.

 

Seunghyun’s heart glitches instantly, because Jiyong is staring with those molten eyes that still pull him in despite the awful, fluorescent basement light. That still make him itch for a paintbrush and hours of free time that are all his own. Just Seunghyun, his studio, and Jiyong’s loveliness.

 

 _Fuck._ He swallows audibly, disintegration imminent. What is he supposed to do with _that_?

 

“You, um,” Jiyong huffs gently and lifts a hand to stroke Boris’s thick fur, gaze unwavering. “You really did save my ass, though.”

 

“My pleasure,” Seunghyun answers, just as quiet, and then winces. “I-I mean-- it was no problem. I’ve actually had this happen before. Cats just really like small spaces.”

 

Long, tattooed fingers brush against Seunghyun’s. He writes it off as unintentional until it happens a second time, and there’s that glitch again, heat blooming under his skin. _Was it always this stuffy in here_? It’s like he’s suddenly inhaling humid, grapefruit-scented smoke.

 

“And I promise not to be loud anymore,” Jiyong adds with a crooked little smirk.

 

Seunghyun knows he’s blushing, because his brain has permanently linked “loud” and Jiyong with Jiyong moaning beneath him, and something about the teasing glint in those soft, brown eyes has him thinking he’s not the only one who remembers. _Definitely telepathic._

 

“At least for today,” he manages to reply. The words feel like they’re sticking to his throat.

 

“Yeah,” Jiyong almost whispers.

 

Warm fabric grazes Seunghyun’s arm as Jiyong sways closer, both of their hands stilling against Boris. He is 1000% certain that this is going where he thinks it’s going, even without the obvious glancing at his mouth, but just as easy as it is for time to blur and slow down, it can snap into focus like an electric shock.

 

First, the building’s front door falls shut with a heavy, wooden _thud_ above them. Then Boris tries to wriggle out of his grasp, and reality smacks him upside the head.

 

“Shit!” Seunghyun yells, stumbling as he wrestles to keep a hold on the squishy menace.

 

Luckily Jiyong lunges to catch Boris before he slips away entirely.

 

“I should--” Jiyong blurts, clutching the cat to his chest and releasing an unsteady giggle. “I should get him back upstairs. Eleanor’ll be home soon, anyway. She’ll totally freak if he’s not there.”

 

Seunghyun nods jerkily.

 

“Yeah. Sure, no problem.”

 

Chewing on his stupidly pretty lips, Jiyong nods too, and then flashes him one last nervous grin.

 

“See you later, Seunghyun.”

 

All he can do is raise one hand in farewell as he follows Jiyong’s departure, Boris’s beady little eyes glinting at him over Jiyong’s shoulder. Seunghyun barely restrains the urge to give the cat the finger and settles for covering his face with his hands. Which is where he started. Frustrated, pining, and saying goodbye to the final shreds of his sanity.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


That weekend, Seunghyun eagerly agrees to meet some of his friends for drinks. It’s an excuse to give himself a break from work--something he realizes he needs and never takes. _Breathing_ . He has to remember that. Even if the totally innocent and normal bodily function has now been sullied by what he’s started calling The Great Escape. Seunghyun is aware that cats and Steve McQueen escaping a POW camp in nazi Germany have very little to do with each other, but it’s the only way he knows how to cope when so many things were ruined for him that day. He can’t even _look_ at a fucking grapefruit anymore, let alone smell one. Which is awful. Because he really _liked_ grapefruits, damnit.

 

Trudging along the sidewalk towards the bar, he rolls his eyes at himself; knows he’s being crazy. Tonight was supposed to be an opportunity to _not_ think about his neighbor for more than a few minutes. Of course he fails spectacularly at that, too. And the moment he walks through the door, Olivia, Chaerin, Will, and Adrienne all watch him with unbridled, predatory glee. Seunghyun sighs, resigned.

 

“You didn’t have to rat me out,” he grumbles before any of them can say a damn thing, and slides into the booth next to Olivia. When she laughs ecstatically, Seunghyun elbows her in the ribs.

 

“That’s what friends are for, sweetheart,” Chaerin grins across from him, swishing the last of her cocktail and downing it.

 

He glances around the table at their amused and expectant faces, like his teenage crush is the most fantastically hilarious thing in the universe.

 

“Nothing about this is gossip worthy.” He frowns to spite them. “It’s depressing and terrible.”

 

“Are you listening to this?” Will scoffs.

 

Olivia reaches over to pat Seunghyun on the head. “He’s been insufferable for the last two weeks,” she coos.

 

“Oh, fuck you,” Seunghyun shoots back, smiling because he can’t help himself.

 

Adrienne perks up at that and plops her chin into both hands. “Speaking of fucking…”

 

“No,” Seunghyun insists, kicking at her under the table, wishing his friends weren’t such nosy assholes. “We’re not discussing it. End of story.”

 

“You’re like, the poster child of anti-fun. Did all that turpentine rot your brain?” Will asks, looking incredibly put out as he crosses his arms and _pouts_ for fuck’s sake.

 

Seunghyun would say he can’t believe them, but he’s known most of them for almost a decade, and nothing about their behavior is shocking. Silly him, thinking they’d all be a bit more mature now that they’re heading into their 30s. The voice in the back of his head reminds him exactly how mature _he’s_ been and he succeeds in fighting the blush, but not his eternal embarrassment.

 

“Obviously Olivia told you enough already, there’s nothing else to tell. So just drop it,” Seunghyun puts his foot down, then officially changes the subject. “How’s Peter?”

 

Will’s expression brightens instantly. “ _Won_ derful,” he gushes, struggling to contain himself. “He got the promotion.”

 

Seunghyun allows a genuine smile.

 

“That’s awesome.”

 

After that, talk quickly spirals into territory they’re all used to. Significant others, how much they hate their jobs, Olivia’s crazy dogs, Chaerin’s most recent trip to Paris. The cadence of their voices is familiar and soothing and Seunghyun appreciates, not for the first time, how easily distracted they are. Well, 3 out of 4, at least. All it takes is a brief, sharp look from Olivia to tell him this particular conversation is far from finished.

 

But it isn’t until he wades through the Friday night crowd to order a drink that she has a chance to continue it.

 

“Hey.” Olivia squishes in beside him at the bar, eyes already pleading. “Don’t hate me.”

 

“I don’t,” Seunghyun tells her. Olivia quirks an eyebrow and he laughs. “Really, I don’t.”

 

“So…” she prods.

 

“So, nothing.”

 

He flags the bartender; orders a whiskey sour. He can see her frustration mounting in his periphery.

 

Olivia leans on the counter, forcing Seunghyun to look at her. “First of all, I can’t think of a living soul that would say no to you. And second--” she holds her hand up to silence him before he even opens his mouth, because she knew he’d do that. She always knows. “ _Second_ ,” Olivia emphasizes. “You’re literally never this timid when it comes to pursuing people. So what gives?”

 

The bartender returns with his drink and he fishes his wallet out to pay before replying.

 

“You know what,” Seunghyun murmurs, sipping from the glass. His tongue is coated in cadmium orange and indian yellow and no, he does not immediately think of The Great Escape. It takes a few seconds.

 

“You’re letting your last failed relationship stop you from getting laid?” Olivia asks flatly.

 

He sighs. “Who says I just wanna get laid?”

 

Legit question. Seunghyun doesn’t even know what the answer is.

 

“My criticism stands.”

 

“We live in the same building, it would be catastrophic when it inevitably went to shit,” he argues.

 

But Olivia, naturally, isn’t having any of it. She’s got her serious face on and he sets his glass down, regarding her calmly while he waits for the lecture.

 

“Seunghyun, life is a gigantic fucking mess. You know this, I know this, everyone knows this,” she begins. “Stop hiding behind your bullshit and go have sex with your incredibly attractive upstairs neighbor, who _clearly_ wants you to bang him. Hopefully you’ll end up dating and then I won’t have to listen to you whine anymore.”

 

That gets him chuckling.

 

“Your pep talk skills need some serious work.”

 

“Shut up.” Olivia half-heartedly punches him in the arm and he grins.

 

“I’ll think about it.”

 

She shakes her head. “You already have, dumbass. I know you.”

 

Seunghyun drinks from his glass and says nothing. Mostly because she’s right. But also because he doesn’t want to admit that she’s right. Out of cowardice, more than pride.

 

“Yes, you do,” he concedes quietly.

 

“Now buy me a drink, moneybags, you owe me,” Olivia demands.

 

Not-quite-choking on his next sip, Seunghyun coughs, whiskey burning in his throat. “Is that what you call me behind my back?”

 

She threads her arm through his, smile deceptively sweet as she presses close and kisses him on the cheek.

 

“No, what I call you behind your back is much, much worse.”

 

“Is it sad that I believe you?” Seunghyun asks.

 

Olivia’s brilliance hits him square in the chest when she giggles--dark eyes disappearing into mirthful crescents and cheeks round with joy. His fingers itch for a paintbrush.

 

“I love you, you know that, right?”

 

He nods, disentangling their arms to curl his around her shoulders. “Yeah, I know.”

 

It’s a testament to their friendship--Olivia’s and everyone else’s--that the evening passes without further incident. Seunghyun laughs a lot and feels warm, happy to be surrounded by empty glasses and old stories and playfully merciless teasing. Nights like these remind him to breathe. Even if, in the same breath, all he can think about is grapefruit and rose petals.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


The subway home swarms with late night partiers--Seunghyun huddled in the corner next to the doors, enjoying the rhythm of the train car and his buzzed sloshing. He likes how the crowd thins when everyone surges out onto the platform, then fills up all over again, new voices threading themselves into the noise. Noise that he doesn’t mind and doesn’t feel the need to smother with music, because there’s something comforting about the well-oiled city machine. Like urban arteries pumping out life. Like a pulse personified. Seunghyun smiles and rests his head against the glass. He sounds like an idiot and should _definitely_ never say this shit out loud.

 

The train eases to a stop. People brush past him as they get off and then on, humid subway station air heavy in his lungs when he breathes. But then a blurred stroke of platinum catches his eye and breathing is the last thing on his mind.

 

Jiyong, of all people, darts through the doors right before they close--a relieved grin on his face as he adjusts his backpack, panting. The train lurches forward at the same time his dark eyes go wide and his grin falters, one hand slapping the glass above Seunghyun’s shoulder to steady himself. Seunghyun ignores the fact that his own hand jerked out to catch him and tucks it discreetly into the pocket of his jeans like that’s where it was always going.

 

“Hey, Mr. Painter.” Jiyong’s smiling again. Smiling and entirely too close for comfort.

 

He flattens himself against the partition, nodding, vision overwhelmed by charcoal and umber and the stretch of pink over white.

 

“Hi.”

 

Seunghyun has enough active brain cells to wonder what the odds are that Jiyong would be at this station at this exact time and choose this exact train car. Then again, maybe he’s not done being punished.

 

When Jiyong leans away and shifts to his other side--long fingers gripping the metal pole--Seunghyun notices the expanse of golden, tattooed skin exposed by Jiyong’s flimsy tank top and decides this has to be a circle of hell made especially for him. There’s no more denying it at this point.

 

“I didn’t know you even left the building,” Jiyong says a moment later.

 

He snorts. “Ha ha.”

 

“What’s the special occasion?”

 

“Just out with friends,” Seunghyun answers, glancing around the train in an effort not to stare too blatantly. “You?”

 

His neighbor doesn’t seem to have the same reluctance, though, gaze zeroed in on Seunghyun like fucking precision lasers.

 

“Work,” Jiyong replies simply.

 

“Didn’t you give me shit for working after 3AM the night we met?” he asks, turning to squint at him.

 

Jiyong’s lips curl into a smirk. “I can’t really bartend from home, can I?”

 

Seunghyun didn’t need to know that. Or rather, he didn’t need the attractive mental image that came giftwrapped with it.

 

The train slows to a stop. People brush past him as they get on and then off and Jiyong shuffles closer to make room. He clears his throat, waiting for the doors to close before asking, “Where do you work?”

 

It’s a weak attempt not to focus on the heat of Jiyong against his arm.

 

“Kinetix.”

 

“The gay bar downtown?”

 

“Yeah.” Jiyong is still burning holes in him with his laser eyes. “You ever been?”

 

“Once or twice,” Seunghyun admits. He looks at the dirty floor and rolls his next words around in his head for a few seconds, then reminds himself that he’s never really had a healthy sense of self-preservation. “I was a different breed of club kid, back in the day.”

 

This brings Jiyong up short, brows furrowing even as he grins, like he can’t choose between calling bullshit and laughing his ass off. Seunghyun thinks it’s adorable.

 

“No way were you any kind of club kid.”

 

He smiles. “Hard to believe, I know. I’m a crotchety old man now.”

 

Jiyong finally does laugh, eyes flickering down and back up, gaze playful as much as it’s earnest.

 

“I wouldn’t say that.”

 

Seunghyun would probably scoff if he didn’t currently feel like he was drowning.

 

The train slows to a stop. He hardly registers the exchange of riders brushing past him, only the gentle movement of Jiyong’s body as the train continues lumbering down the tracks, rocking them side to side. It’s weirdly intimate and intense in the way moments like these always are--accompanied by the upheaval of his internal organs, anticipation crawling under his skin, the hazy mess of things crowding his mind that are not at all suitable for public places.

 

Jiyong’s smile eventually turns sweet and shy as he ducks his head, pale hair falling into his face. Seunghyun curbs the impulse to reach up and sweep it aside. Barely, but he manages, and then immediately admits to himself that Olivia had a point. Also that he kind of just answered his own question. Because every time Jiyong glances at him--every time he grins or laughs or even just opens his goddamn mouth--it’s like an axe swinging full tilt into a tree. Seunghyun is the tree. Seunghyun is the tree and Seunghyun is going to hit the ground so hard he thinks he should probably start bracing for impact now instead of when it’s too late.

 

The train slows again and stops. The doors glide open. He doesn’t realize it’s _their_ stop until Jiyong shoves him onto the platform, shaking his blonde head with something akin to fondness. Which is weird. Not bad weird. Okay weird? _What the hell does that even mean._

 

“You all right, there?” Jiyong asks while sauntering backwards towards the stairs.

 

“Shut up,” Seunghyun mutters, chuckling.

 

Jiyong’s eyes glitter knowingly and Seunghyun catches another shy grin before he spins around and starts climbing.

 

This part always was his favorite, anyway. The dance. Discovering what buttons to push. Discovery, period. He jogs up the stairs, teeming with questions. But Jiyong beats him to it once they’re on the sidewalk, shoulder to shoulder and dragging their feet. His brain points out just how much this feels like coming home from a date and suddenly he’s nervous all over again.

 

“So, how long have you like, been doing the painting thing?”

 

Seunghyun pulls his cigarettes out, needing a distraction, and then offers one to Jiyong. “Since I was old enough to fingerpaint, basically,” he answers. Jiyong accepts the offer and Seunghyun’s stomach flops when their hands graze in the process. “I dunno, it just seems like it’s been forever. I can’t remember a time without it.”

 

Jiyong nods. “That’s cool.”

 

He supposes it is. His life has pretty much been one, massive happy accident. Emphasis on accident. He takes a much needed drag and lets himself look when soft lips purse around the filter and expel smoke.

 

“What do you do, besides bartend?” Seunghyun asks.

 

“Nothing, right now.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah. I’m figuring it out, though.” Jiyong pauses, flicking ash onto the sidewalk, and then lets out a little huff. “I think I’m just interested in too many things, I don’t know what the fuck to focus on.”

 

They round the corner together, streetlights washing everything in sickly orange and yellow. He remembers the drink. Remembers The Great Escape and how he’d mourned grapefruits, because he’s an overly dramatic shithead. Seunghyun stares at Jiyong and Jiyong stares back and he feels that burn of curiosity getting the best of him.

 

“Like what?”

 

Jiyong makes a distressed face, arms flopping helplessly at his sides. “Everything?”

 

“C’mon,” he prods.

 

“It’s stupid.”

 

Seunghyun’s mouth twitches wider. “I went to art school, I have a degree in stupid.”

 

Jiyong coughs out a surprised laugh, covering the brightness of his amusement with the back of his hand. He fights the impulse to draw it away so he can see just how bright.

 

Once he’s sobered, Jiyong stares self-consciously at the ground. “It’s music, mostly,” he confesses, words quick and anxious. “Photography, writing, fashion, shit like that. It’s--” He sighs heavily. “I’m not really good enough at anything yet.”

 

“So do something,” Seunghyun murmurs. Jiyong groans in frustration, then he’s grinning again.

 

“That’s the problem, I don’t know what.”

 

If he had a dollar for every ex-college student who said “I don’t know what to do with my life” he’d probably be one seriously rich asshole, and he’s already rolling in it.

 

“Trial and error,” he suggests, giving Jiyong a sympathetic smile. “Learning what you don’t want can be more important than learning what you do.”

 

“Did you?” Jiyong asks.

 

“Sort of.” Seunghyun shrugs and takes another drag. “I got lucky.”

 

“Well, if you find any extra lying around, I call dibs,” Jiyong declares, nudging into Seunghyun firmly.

 

He returns the nudge without even thinking about it.

 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

 

Beaming, Jiyong nods again, but doesn’t say anything else, and for the remaining three blocks, they settle into a comfortable silence. It’s actually a tiny bit hilarious how easy this is when he’s not psyching himself out. When he’s just giving himself permission to _like_ Jiyong. And he does. A lot. Which is also why it’s a tiny bit terrifying, because Seunghyun is not good at existing when it’s with someone else.

 

His pulse skips and speeds up at the idea of existing with Jiyong in any capacity and he has to admit that he’s grateful when they finally reach their building before he can do anything ridiculous. Like have a panic attack over his big, stupid, painfully real crush.

 

“I got it,” Jiyong mutters, unlocking the front gate and all the subsequent doors as Seunghyun trails behind, practically wringing his hands.

 

What knocks him out of his almost-panic, though, is the music drifting down into the foyer--quiet until the song changes and assaults more than just his ears with that bland, repetitive EDM crap.

 

“I’ll, um, tell her to turn it down,” Jiyong chuckles unsteadily, shoving a hand into his hair and cringing. “I swear my taste in music isn’t this bad.”

 

Seunghyun laughs, too, following him up the stairs.

 

“Almost thought I’d have to stage an intervention.”

 

“I think I’d still be okay with that,” Jiyong says, flashing Seunghyun a quick smile over his shoulder, lip caught between his teeth.

 

 _Heaven help me_ , he laments internally. But heaven isn’t listening, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek when they reach his front door. Because for a solid ten seconds, Seunghyun contemplated asking Jiyong if he wanted to come inside, and that is a _bad, bad, bad, bad idea_. He needs another day, at least.

 

 _Why, to grow some balls, Choi_? his brain asks. Seunghyun refuses to answer.

 

Shifting his weight on the landing, Jiyong continues worrying his lip and threading his fingers through his disheveled white mop. If Seunghyun wasn’t currently experiencing the same bizarre oscillation from confident to cowering, he’d think it was silly. Instead, it’s endearing and cute and _god_ , Seunghyun forgot what this felt like. Intentionally teetering on the edge of something inevitable.

 

Jiyong clears his throat. “So...have, um, have a good night,” he fumbles, giving an awkward little wave and ducking his head. “Or morning, I guess, it’s like almost four.”

 

“Yeah,” Seunghyun says. He can’t even execute an equally awkward gesture he’s so ready to escape his own lameness. “You too.”

 

Except neither of them budge. Jiyong’s skin flushes an attractive shade of red, his body aborting a forward movement at the same time their eyes meet, and then they’re both giggling breathlessly in mutual mortification.

 

“Right,” Jiyong sighs, pointing behind him. “I’m gonna…”

 

Seunghyun watches him pivot smartly on his heel and fly up the stairs. He blinks. The music swells and fades and then vanishes altogether, and once he’s standing inside the familiarity of his own apartment, Seunghyun presses both hands to his face to stop himself from grinning like a fucking loon.

 

He isn’t very successful.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


As it happens, one day isn’t actually enough for Seunghyun to grow a pair.

 

That, and he’s been so busy preparing for the gallery, he’s hardly stepped foot outside his apartment, let alone the building. Hardly given himself the chance to breathe. Everything is paint stains on the jeans and t-shirt he hasn’t washed in almost a week--worn out brushes, songs on repeat, over-analyzing microscopic details, setting a finished canvas aside and changing his mind when he decides it’s not ready yet. Not good enough yet.

 

The conversation he had with Jiyong always comes to mind. Only he’s a bit past the point of trial and error with the show’s opening just a couple months away.

 

Honestly though, he’s pretty sure the universe in general is out to get him. Because even when he does leave the building, it’s as if someone up there is trying to rub his own cowardice directly in his face. Because more than once, he sees Jiyong at the coffee shop across the street from the subway station, slouched gracefully at a table next to the windows. Sometimes with Eleanor and her boyfriend, sometimes alone. But every time, it’s like the perfect living advertisement of exactly what he wants. “ _Are you lonely? Do you crave a deeper human connection than the occasional night out with friends? Has it been awhile since you were intimate with anything that wasn’t your right hand? Then boy, oh, boy have we got a deal for you!_ ”

 

Embarrassing doesn’t even begin to cover it anymore, either. The other day he saw Jiyong walking into Walgreens just as he was leaving and had to hide behind a shampoo display, because he didn’t have the time to make an ass out of himself.

 

He realizes he already has by avoiding him. The thing is, it’s not even really avoidance. It’s that Seunghyun _forgets_ there’s a world on the other side of his studio door. It’s that he has difficulty making room for people and things when so much of him is inhabited by this. The paintbrush in his fingers; shape, color, light, shadow. The smell of turps and an ache in his back and the feeling of satisfaction when he gets a brush stroke _just fucking right_.

 

But life keeps trying to knock his damn door down.

 

Olivia sends daily texts to find out if he’s “banged his gorgeous neighbor yet”. Then Marlon starts hounding him, because he wants to swing by and check on the finished pieces and Seunghyun just can’t deal with that right now, because to him, they never actually are. There are bills to pay, chores to neglect, remembering to feed himself and not resent his body for having needs like sleep and taking a piss. Kind of goes without saying that he’s been much more of an irritable prick when he’s not immersed in a painting. And he can’t blame the stoner party kids anymore for disrupting his flow, since they’ve been silent as the grave.

 

Seunghyun thinks he knows why, which adds to the guilt. It also adds to his desperate need for alcohol and he winds up in the fancy liquor store a few blocks away, hunting for whiskey or wine. He can’t decide which.

 

“Can I help?” a low voice murmurs to his left and Seungyun almost drops the bottles in his hands.

 

“ _Jesus_ ,” he breathes, jerking around.

 

Jiyong stands next to him with a hand over his grinning mouth. The first thing Seunghyun notices is that there’s no charcoal lining his eyes. No product in his hair, face soft and a little tired. But he’s still as adorable as ever and Seunghyun wonders when looking at him will stop feeling like a battering ram to the chest.

 

“Sorry,” Jiyong mumbles from behind his fingers.

 

Seunghyun shakes his head, awkwardly cradling the bottles in his arms, praying his brain isn’t totally fried on turpentine fumes, because he wasn’t ready for this.

 

“It’s ok.”

 

Lowering his hand, Jiyong nods and starts chewing on his lip. It’s a nervous habit, he knows. He knows and stares anyway as static begins to fill the space between his ears.

 

“Hi,” Jiyong says quietly, trading the grin for a lopsided smile.

 

“Hey,” Seunghyun exhales.

 

“Haven’t seen you much this week.”

 

“Yeah, I--” he stops, thinks, struggles to word. “Deadline. There’s a show in August, I’ve been holed up in my studio.”

 

Something that may or may not be relief washes over Jiyong; a new spark in his gaze that Seunghyun might call hope, but then it’s being covered up by feigned nonchalance and another crooked smile.

 

“Oh. That’s great.”

 

He knows this part, too. He _did_ kind of fall off the face of the earth. Seunghyun adjusts the bottles in his grip and tries not to imagine Jiyong one floor away, wondering what the hell he did to deserve radio silence after their Friday night flirt-fest.

 

“How, um...how are you?” he asks--genuinely wants to hear the answer.

 

“Good.” Jiyong dips his fingers into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Just, y’know, living and stuff.”

 

Seunghyun laughs. “And stuff.”

 

“You have better things to do than listen to the boring details of my life,” Jiyong replies dryly.

 

He’d definitely argue that, but he just smiles instead.

 

“Sometimes I don’t interact with another human being for more than 48 hours, I think I beat you in the boring department.”

 

“Not sure that’s something you should be proud of.”

 

“No,” Seunghyun huffs. “Although, if you--” he breathes in, then also pretends he can be casual by staring at the floor while he takes a small leap. “If you ever wanted to come over and be boring with someone else, I’m usually around.”

 

When he doesn’t get an immediate answer, Seunghyun looks up again. Which he regrets, since all he can see is cadmium orange and indian yellow and the burnt sienna that always seems more liquid than solid.

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jiyong replies, the actual sun in his voice.

 

 _Shit_ , he thinks. This is getting gross. Is already gross. He grins like a fool anyway.

 

“So,” Seunghyun starts, aiming for the least cringeworthy thing he can say when his brain is a mashed potato. “What brings you to the liquor store so late?”

 

“I saw you in the window and thought I’d come say hi,” Jiyong confesses and ducks his head, eyeing Seunghyun critically through his platinum fringe. “Clearly it was the right call, because you obviously have no fucking clue what you’re doing.”

 

“Excuse me?” he balks, but Jiyong just reaches for the bottles of whiskey in his arms and laughs.

 

“Seriously, put those down.”

 

“But--”

 

“What’s your price range?”

 

Seunghyun belatedly remembers that he’s talking to a bartender and makes himself unclench. “I don’t have one.”

 

Arching an intrigued eyebrow, Jiyong sets the liquor back on the shelf, gaze almost calculating when he straightens and smirks.

 

“All right, then.”

 

He’s pretty sure there was a flash of excitement on Jiyong’s face after he said that, but Seunghyun is just trying to keep up, following obediently as they begin combing the aisles. A baseball game plays on the flat screen TVs mounted to the walls and several customers come and go--it all blends together in the background of his currently unraveling sanity. Because Jiyong’s thoughtful concentration as he scans the shelves is more of a turn on than he wants to admit.

 

“How long have you been doing this?” he asks.

 

“Five years? Something like that, I dunno,” Jiyong says absently, inspecting a bottle of bourbon, setting it down again. “I started in college and just stuck with it. Easy money and all that.”

 

The mental image he has gets a thousand times worse as he watches tattooed fingers slide over dark wood and cradle glass with familiarity. Because he’s thinking about Jiyong behind the bar, wielding bottles and a bright smile like Seunghyun wields a brush. Confidently, mindlessly--an act so effortless the motions themselves are practically ingrained.

 

Seunghyun cocks his hip against the shelves, his level of attraction spiraling to new heights. “Do you enjoy it?”

 

“Yeah, I guess.” Jiyong shrugs and then laughs a bit, adding, “I mean, I’m good at it, at least.”

 

“I bet you make insane tips,” he says, mouth apparently deciding to sprout a mind of its own now that his dick has joined the conversation.

 

Jiyong snorts.

 

“You have no idea.”

 

The suggestion of why Jiyong makes insane tips seems to completely miss its target and Seunghyun grins again, impulsively leaning in close to murmur, “I think I have some idea.”

 

Time slows for a second and stretches out when Jiyong turns his head, their noses an inch or two apart, goosebumps rippling along Seunghyun’s skin. He hears the hitch in Jiyong’s breath as the words sink in. Sees the pink spread across his cheeks.

 

“Do you, um--” Jiyong falters and starts over. “Are there any--”

 

“Are there any what?”

 

“Flavor preferences,” Jiyong almost mumbles. His attention drifts, drawn to Seunghyun’s mouth as Seunghyun shakes his head in answer. “Okay.” He swallows visibly. “I’ll just--”

 

And then Jiyong flees, power walking towards the register without looking back. Seunghyun would laugh if he didn’t feel like his heart was about to cave in on itself. Flirting has never been this stressful. Or this hard. Maybe all that shitty trap music broke something in his brain the first night they met.

 

 _You know that’s not what it is_ , the voice replies.

 

Seunghyun sighs and wanders over to the counter, wondering how bad it would be if he got a lobotomy.

 

“What did you find?” he asks, interrupting the conversation Jiyong was having with one of the bearded, plaid-loving hipsters who work here.

 

Jiyong flashes Seunghyun a brief smile, ruffling his hair again and avoiding eye-contact. “Thanks, Cal.”

 

“No problem, Ji,” the bearded hipster says cheerily. “I’ll be over here when you guys are ready.”

 

Seunghyun watches him go. “I take it you come here often.”

 

“It was the first place I checked out when we moved in,” Jiyong admits, letting out an amused huff, like it’s embarrassing or something, that he likes what he does.

 

But before he can push that button, they’re already moving on.

 

“Anyway. Were you serious about not having a price range?” Jiyong asks.

 

Seunghyun nods. “Yeah.”

 

He can always tell when someone wants to know why he looks the way he does, yet can afford almost everything. The paint-spattered clothes from Goodwill, the mid-range apartment, the weird collection of furniture he more or less found on the street. They all put him in the category reserved for struggling not-quite-adults who sometimes act like they know what they’re doing, but really don’t. Technically, Seunghyun is still that person. He just doesn’t have to worry as much anymore, even though he does anyway, because that shit never really goes away.

 

What surprises him now, is that Jiyong wants to know--Seunghyun sees that--but ignores the urge to do so. Like maybe it doesn’t matter. He watches the question dissipate from Jiyong’s eyes and hopes that won’t change.

 

“Okay, so...this one is kind of crazy expensive? But it’s pretty incredible as far as single grains go and it won a bunch of awards last year,” Jiyong explains, pointing at the first sleek box sitting on the counter and then at the other. “This is a lot more reasonable. Also complex and spicy and I _think_ one of the best ryes I’ve ever had. The finish is killer.”

 

Seunghyun is a little caught up in the way Jiyong’s face went from shy and inquisitive to supernova in .02 seconds. _Figuring it out, my ass_. His lips twitch at the corners.

 

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and assume that you don’t get many opportunities to geek out about this.”

 

Jiyong tosses his head back as he laughs loudly. Is there a step up from supernova? He makes a mental note to Google it later. For science.

 

“Most people at the bar just wanna get fucked up,” Jiyong replies, chuckling, unable to keep the smile from his own lips. “Once in a blue moon, though, there’s someone who knows what they’re talking about, which is nice.”

 

“I’m sorry I’m not one of those someones,” Seunghyun teases and Jiyong reaches over to gently shove at his arm.

 

“Don’t worry, you’re not totally hopeless.”

 

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, because if he doesn’t, he’ll end up standing there staring. And then he’ll have to talk himself out of kissing Jiyong senseless.

 

The fact that he hasn’t broken down and mauled him yet is an actual miracle. Like a phenomenon of biblical proportions, that type of miracle. So it’s with an impeccable sense of control that he forces himself to not be a horny teenage boy for five minutes, and pays for both bottles.

 

Jiyong’s gaze burns into the side of his face throughout the entire transaction, as if he can’t believe Seunghyun is actually doing this--dropping over 2k on alcohol like it’s nothing. But all he can think about is how much he wants to not be wrong about the feeling in his gut. About what’s happening. What he wants to happen.

 

They walk back to their apartment building in near silence. Jiyong isn’t drilling holes into his head anymore, but he might as well be with how thick the tension is between them. Thicker than the humid summer air dragging at his limbs or the lump in his throat when he stops in front of his door and takes a slightly bigger leap.

 

“Here.” Seunghyun pulls the bottle of straight rye whiskey from the bag  “For your help.”

 

Jiyong’s mouth hangs open, shock written in every line of his body. “Are you fucking kidding? I can’t take this. Seunghyun--”

 

“It’s yours. I insist,” he interrupts softly, pushing it into Jiyong’s hands and trying to smile big enough to hide the panic that he went too far.

 

“Thank you,” Jiyong answers, but it sounds automatic instead of genuine. “I, um. I should let you get back to work.”

 

Seunghyun’s heart really does feel like it’s caving in on itself. “Yeah. That,” he sighs.

 

Giving him a strange look, Jiyong nods, smiles weakly, opens his mouth again like he wants to ask. He doesn’t, though, and Seunghyun is about to backpedal when suddenly that mouth presses against his cheek in a fleeting caress.

 

He freezes. Jiyong lingers for a brief moment, breath warm on Seunghyun’s skin, and then he’s gone--bounding up the stairs with only the echo of his door clicking shut to verify Seunghyun isn’t hallucinating.

 

“Right,” he says to the empty hallway.

 

Inside, Seunghyun sits on one of his curbside couches and opens the bottle of extremely expensive Japanese whiskey. He pours it into a glass, the aroma sweet and strong when he breathes in and then closes his eyes, taking a delicate sip. His tongue is flower petals, fruit, toffee, oak. Seunghyun relishes the slight burn and lets his head loll against the cushions, over-analyzing the microscopic details of the last ten minutes and wishing he was better at this.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


“ _If you sigh like the sexually frustrated heroine from a Jane Austen novel one more time, I swear to god I’m hanging up_.”

 

Seunghyun actually has to tamp down on the urge to do just that, settling for an eye roll even though Olivia can’t see him.

 

“Thank you for being so supportive,” he grumbles and hoists the bag of groceries in his arm a little higher as he crosses the street.

 

 _“It’s not fucking heart surgery, Seunghyun_ ,” she laughs into his ear. “ _I mean seriously, it doesn’t get any more silver platter than this, I don’t understand what your problem is_.”

 

He _is_ the problem. And yeah, maybe Jiyong kissed him on the cheek last night, but he still feels like he fucked up.

 

“I’m socially awkward and weird?” he suggests. Olivia snorts.

 

“ _Pretty sure he already knows, Casanova_.”

 

“You’re seriously annoying sometimes.”

 

“ _Right back at’cha, babe_.”

 

“Babe? Really?” Seunghyun holds the phone with his shoulder, digging around in his pocket for the keys.

 

“ _I dunno, it just came out of my mouth so I rolled with it_.”

 

He smiles only to have it fall when he notices Eleanor lounging on the front steps.

 

“Olive, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.”

 

“ _Hopefully to tell me you finally decided to love yourself!_ ” she almost shouts.

 

Seunghyun ends the call with a jab of his thumb and tries not to drop it while he fumbles to unlock the gate.

 

“Hi, Eleanor.”

 

“Sup,” she grins in that lazy way of hers, head tilting to the side, eyes narrowed at him in what he assumes must be some kind of stoned thought process.

 

He huffs gently, shoving the gate closed with his foot. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

 

“Mmm…” Eleanor hums. She’s quiet for several beats and Seunghyun almost thinks he isn’t going to get a real answer, but then, “Nothing. Just had an idea, is all.”

 

“Good luck with that.”

 

“Thanks, man.” She grins again as he walks past her up the stairs. “Also…”

 

Seunghyun stops, waits. A bird chirps nearby and a few cars glide past on the street and he stands there, unable to imagine what it’s like to live with this girl. “Also?” he prompts. These groceries are getting ridiculously heavy.

 

Eleanor’s head flops back so she can look at him. “You’re welcome.”

 

“For what, exactly?” Seunghyun laughs.

 

“It’s a secret,” she answers in a loud whisper.

 

“Okay.” He shakes his head, shoving his phone into his jeans, and unlocks the front door. “I’m going in now.”

 

“Be safe, hot neighbor,” Eleanor drawls behind him.

 

At this point, Seunghyun has to wonder if she even knows his name or if she’s just like this all the time. The fact that he can hear her giggling to herself while he collects his mail has him leaning towards the latter. It also makes him uneasy, because he knows what happens to ideas when you’re baked off your ass. Everything sounds brilliant and life-altering, like putting funfetti cake in a bowl of lucky charms and drowning it in milk.

 

Actually, that was a pretty fantastic idea, but Seunghyun has a sinking feeling that whatever Eleanor’s got planned probably won’t be.

 

Pushing the apprehension aside, he trudges up to his apartment. He has more important things to do than worry about that space cadet. Except that as soon as he’s finished putting away his groceries, he can hear Eleanor and her boyfriend cackling in the foyer before they trample up the stairs like a herd of elephants. Then the music starts--bass pounding rhythmically through the floor--followed by a crash out on the porch and more hyena cackling. Seunghyun hides his face in his hands, whining, because he _knew_ it was all too fucking good to be true.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


Throughout the afternoon and the evening and into the night, the music continues. Seunghyun does his absolute best to block it out, because he still hasn’t found the balls he needs to go up there and apologize for being a giant weirdo. It wouldn’t be that hard. It’s _not_ that hard. And yet the only thing he can see is his dumbass self making everything worse. Again.

 

He slides further down in his chair, frowning, sketchpad propped against his knees. He decided to take a break from going insane and fuck around with some mindless doodles, but he keeps drawing little cartoon versions of Jiyong being adorable and now he wants to die.

 

“Biggest loser,” Seunghyun sing-mumbles to himself, even as he puts the finishing touches on a sketch of Jiyong and Boris the cat menace dancing in the middle of the page.

 

That’s when he hears a door slam in the hallway, his pencil stilling over the paper. Someone who sounds like Jiyong yells something incomprehensible. A muted response comes from upstairs, then footsteps, then a heavy _knock knock knock_ on his own door.

 

Seunghyun sets the pad down and goes to answer it.

 

“Hey,” Jiyong sighs. He looks pissed. Seunghyun automatically hates himself for thinking that’s attractive.

 

“Hey.”

 

Hands tucking under his armpits, Jiyong bounces on the balls of his bare feet and gnaws at his lip, staring at the floor. It seems like he’s having trouble psyching himself up for whatever he’s about to say. Seunghyun has to admit that he’s having a little trouble himself--distracted beyond reason by the thin long-sleeved shirt and black bicycle shorts clinging to that body. To the extent that he almost doesn’t notice once Jiyong eventually starts talking.

 

“Um. So, Eleanor and Mike locked me out, because it’s their anniversary and I’m pretty sure they’re about to have really obnoxious sex on every surface in the apartment, but it’s after midnight and all of my shit’s still up there, because I was in the middle of doing yoga and now I have nowhere else to go.”

 

Jiyong sighs again when he’s finished, glancing anxiously at Seunghyun. “I’m really sorry, I know you’re probably working or--”

 

“No, no. It’s fine,” he manages to reply, stepping aside and not thinking about yoga in relation to his neighbor, because he’s positive his brain would actually fall out if he did.

 

Cautiously, Jiyong moves inside. Seunghyun shuts the door and flips the deadbolt and only then does he realize how very, very alone they are.

 

“I hope I’m not like, interrupting or anything,” Jiyong says, eyebrows furrowed with worry.

 

“You’re not,” he reassures, laughing slightly and making a beeline for the studio. “I was just quietly losing my mind.”

 

Jiyong laughs at that, too, but it dies in his throat as soon as he enters the room.

 

“Holy fucking shit,” he hears Jiyong breathe.

 

Seunghyun watches him rush toward the far wall to stand in front of the peonies, eyes wide. He has to consciously stop himself from fidgeting, because it never stops being a headtrip--seeing other people see his work for the first time, regardless of what it is and how he feels about it. He’s not particularly fond of this series. But having Jiyong here, dwarfed by the massive petals and fingers twitching at his sides like he wants to _touch_? Like he wants to find out if they’re real? That sends a tendril of warmth right to his core.

 

“ _Seunghyun_.”

 

He grins. “What?”

 

“These are incredible,” Jiyong praises, awe in the softness of his smile when he goes to look at the poppies next.

 

“They’re not. But thank you,” Seunghyun replies.

 

Jiyong whirls around. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

 

“Yes,” he deadpans.

 

“I’m serious.” Jiyong turns back to the canvas of crushed flowers, gaze slow as he drinks in the details. Reverent, even. “They’re beautiful.”

 

For a moment, Seunghyun wonders what’s going through his head. What is Jiyong seeing? Can he tell what Seunghyun was doing? If the answer is yes, he thinks he’s better off not knowing. A guy can only survive so much, and those bike shorts are fucking lethal. When he fantasized about this happening--and he did, many times--Jiyong’s lycra-clad ass was definitely not part of the deal.

 

“I don’t normally do this kind of work,” Seunghyun blurts before he can start wondering how flexible Jiyong is. “There was a theme, which I hate, because it makes me feel like I’m in high school again, but the guy who owns the gallery is a friend from college. Apparently he’s hot shit these days and saying no would’ve been unwise.”

 

Jiyong keeps drifting around the studio, migrating towards the third and final canvas still sitting on the low shelf he uses as an easel. These are bearded irises. One in full bloom, the other just beginning to open; their rippled, blue petals dotted with a few droplets of water. He’s regretting just how hard he went with the eroticism.

 

“What do you normally do?” Jiyong asks.

 

“Portraits.” Seunghyun hovers in the middle of the room, no idea what to do with himself.  “I’m better at painting people than talking to them.”

 

Turning again, Jiyong gives him a lopsided grin.

 

“You talk to me.”

 

“I vomit words at you, it’s different,” he laughs humorlessly and rubs at the back of his neck.

 

Then he hears it--the rhythmic pounding picking up speed, a string of faint moans. Seunghyun’s skin ignites while Jiyong cringes. As if this experience wasn’t anxiety-inducing enough, they get the super fun bonus of hetero sex noises to accompany their already bizarre courtship.

 

He points into the hallway. “Do you want a drink? I need a drink.”

 

Seunghyun leaves without waiting for Jiyong’s reply, walking into the kitchen and going straight for the bottle of whiskey. He grabs two glasses and pours the amber liquid into both, downing his just as Jiyong emerges through the doorway with a blush high on his cheeks and a secret smile toying at the edges of his mouth. He pours himself another before Jiyong can even make it to the counter.

 

“Boris really left an impression on you, huh?”

 

Now it’s his turn to cringe. “Shit, you saw that?” His internal organs are literally on fire.

 

Jiyong’s lips stretch like a sunbeam across his face as he takes the other glass. “Yeah, I saw that,” he confirms, knocking back the whiskey in one go. “No one’s ever drawn me before.”

 

“That you know of,” Seunghyun jokes lamely. Jiyong is standing so close his knee keeps brushing Seunghyun’s leg, he can’t be held accountable for the embarrassing things that come out of his mouth.

 

“Yeah, true,” Jiyong huffs, still smiling.

 

He refills their drinks, trying his best to ignore the sounds filtering down through the ceiling, but that’s pretty difficult when neither of them are saying anything. Seunghyun supposes this would be a good opportunity to apologize. Jiyong peers at him over the rim of his glass, eyes soft and sharp at the same time, and Seunghyun swallows his cowardice.

 

“I’m sorry if I freaked you out last night. It was stupid,” he murmurs.

 

“Maybe stupidly generous,” Jiyong mutters wryly.

 

Seunghyun coughs out a laugh, heart hammering somewhere in his throat as he glances around the kitchen, because looking at Jiyong directly while he says this is too much. Despite having been here before. All the experience in the world never makes the spewing of one’s feelings any easier.

 

“I just--” Seunghyun pauses, takes a breath. “--don’t want you to think I was trying to buy your affection or whatever.”

 

Nodding, Jiyong sets his glass down.

 

“I don’t.”

 

“That’s good.” He clears his throat. “Because my brain doesn’t really function the way it’s supposed to when you’re, um--” Seunghyun struggles with the sentence, Jiyong easing closer, one of those tattooed hands coming to rest lightly on his hip. “W-when you’re...around.”

 

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Jiyong murmurs, close enough now that Seunghyun can feel the gentle vibration of his voice. The swell of his ribcage when he breathes, the heat of his body seeping through Seunghyun’s paint-stained t-shirt.

 

When he imagined how this part would go, it was all frantic and desperate. A collision, not a gradual merging. But he’s okay with the reality, even if his heart feels like it’s about to pound itself into an early grave.

 

Seunghyun smiles and lets out a shaky exhale, reaching up to brush Jiyong’s hair away from his forehead and comb through the soft strands. Jiyong sighs, eyelashes fluttering, and then several things happen at once--space disappears, bodies melt, their fingers curl and anchor. Seunghyun’s everything shivers and he exists as a kaleidoscope of color. Phthalo blue and alizarin crimson and every single shade of purple in between.

 

Jiyong’s tongue slides into his mouth and he sees transparent gold, a hazy brightness expanding in his chest and behind his eyelids, making him moan. Making Jiyong grin and coil his arms around Seunghyun’s waist until it seems like they might actually converge.

 

His hands find the swell of Jiyong’s ass to keep him there. Not that he thinks either of them are going anywhere anytime soon, but he vaguely remembers wanting to say something. Something important--more important than the arousal burning in his gut. And when Jiyong rolls his hips, it hits him like a shock of electricity zipping through each vein, clearing a bit of the fog.

 

“Wait, wait,” Seunghyun mumbles against his lips, pulling back only to kiss him again, because he’s weak and those lips are more addictive than nicotine.

 

Jiyong giggles and jerks his head back when Seunghyun tries to do it again. “What?”

 

It takes him a second to reel his brain in. “Um…right, so…I, uh--” _Off to a running start, Seunghyun, way to go_.

 

Jiyong smiles at him like he hung every goddamn star in the sky instead of like the massive dork that he is, which is unfair and incredibly distracting.

 

“God, stop,” he chuckles, scrunching his eyes shut. This was _important_. “I just need to say this.”

 

“So say it.”

 

Seunghyun bites the inside of his cheek and the metaphorical bullet. “I don’t think I can, uh, do the casual thing. I kind of like you way too much for that,” he confesses, knows he’s blushing again. “But I’m really terrible at--”

 

“Stringing words together?” Jiyong interrupts.

 

“You fucking brat,” Seunghyun laughs, eyes cracking open, and takes one look at that smirking face before pinning Jiyong to the counter with his weight. “I’m trying to be upfront here, because in about thirty seconds, I’m pretty sure we’re gonna be in my bed and I want us to be on the same page.”

 

“Us,” Jiyong repeats, sounding more than pleased.

 

“Yeah, us.”

 

“Continue.”

 

“Thanks,” he drawls, and the sunbeam returns with a vengeance.

 

Seunghyun allows himself a moment to stare. Also a moment to get serious, since it is. He’s still giddy as hell and having difficulty concentrating with Jiyong pressed up against him like this--with Jiyong rubbing circles into his spine and staring right back--but he can be an adult. Sometimes.

 

“I’m really bad at relationships,” Seunghyun begins, watching for Jiyong’s reaction. “All relationships, even friends. Because when I’m working, I get lost, and it’s a challenge for me to realize how much I’ve neglected the rest of the world.” He inhales, exhales, looks Jiyong right in the eye. “I don’t want you to feel neglected. So, if you’re up for it, I’d like-- I’d like to try and not do that.”

 

Lifting his hands, Jiyong takes Seunghyun’s cheeks and leans in, kissing him firmly and leaving little room for doubt. It’s such a oddly profound relief that he wasn’t prepared for, and he almost sags into the kiss; has to use the counter to hold himself up.

 

At the very least, Seunghyun expects some kind of verbal agreement or even just a nod of the head, but when Jiyong finally leans away, he smiles and asks, “How much you wanna bet that we can be louder than them?”

 

Seunghyun dissolves into hysterics, face buried in Jiyong’s neck. “Only--” he wheezes, “Only one way to find out.”

 

The sound of Jiyong’s happy giggle-shrieking when Seunghyun scoops him up and carries him out of the kitchen is very, very promising.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


Friday August, 26th arrives whether Seunghyun is ready for it or not.

 

The day itself is a big, amorphous blur of what shirt to wear, not wanting to eat because he’s too nervous, Jiyong making him anyway, and pacing the length of his studio that is now three paintings lighter. If there’s one thing he hates about being an artist, it’s this. Having to pimp himself out when it’s the work that’s speaking. Not him. He doesn’t matter, the paintings do, and he doesn’t even fucking _like_ these.

 

Seunghyun stops a few centimeters short of dragging a hand through his hair. He’s not supposed to, because Jiyong said he’d kill him if he ruined it. Smiling, he looks up at the gallery’s ceiling and releases a heavy breath, clenching his fingers at his sides instead. The place is buzzing with a diverse crowd of well-dressed strangers, but Seunghyun is trying to keep a low profile by lurking in the background. He found the perfect corner to stand in that would also give him a view into the room where his work is hanging. Olivia’s around here somewhere. Chaerin and Adrienne and Will, too. Maybe even Eleanor and Mike, he doesn’t know. He just knows that he can’t wait to go home and take this stupid suit off and not force another empty smile.

 

Who invented networking, anyway? Because he’d like a few words.

 

Muted, indistinct jazz pumps out of tiny speakers, a steady hum of voices filling the too-warm space. Cheap champagne, awful catering, air thick with pretension and cloying perfume. To say he was bored would be an understatement and he’s in the middle of formulating the best escape plan to go smoke a cigarette when a pair of hands slide around his waist from behind. He startles. Jiyong laughs in his ear.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“No, you’re not,” Seunghyun mutters, but his mouth twitches at the edges.

 

Pressing his answering smile against Seunghyun’s neck, Jiyong hugs him a little tighter. “How does it feel to be the belle of the ball?”

 

He scoffs. “Please.”

 

“Look at all those people, Seunghyun,” Jiyong insists, letting go of him to point through the doorway on the other side of the room. “They’re a flute of champagne away from trying to talk those paintings into bed.”

 

A surprised laugh bubbles up from his chest.

 

“I’ll believe it when I see a check.”

 

“Like you care about the money.”

 

It’s true, he doesn’t. Even if he wasn’t comfortable. Seunghyun’s not sure he’d ever really care and he realizes that, in a lot of ways, this makes him lucky. For some reason, though, it’s hard to muster those feelings of appreciation tonight. He’s not entirely sure why.

 

“I know,” he murmurs, placing his hands over the ones on his stomach.

 

“Just enjoy it,” Jiyong says, voice low and soothing--yellow ochre, burnt umber, a hint of violet. The only colors he’ll ever need.

 

“You don’t have to talk to them, but at least appreciate what you’re capable of,” Jiyong continues. “You should see their faces,” he nearly whispers.

 

Seunghyun humors his boyfriend and scans the crowd, catching glimpses of their expressions, all of them contorted in some kind of emotion--be it concentration, pleasure, or a subtle sadness. That was the point. He should be glad, shouldn’t he? For this and for so many other things.

 

“I don’t need to see their faces, I just wanna see yours,” he says instead, taking one of Jiyong’s hands to pull him around.

 

Jiyong grins up at him. “You already know what my face looks like.”

 

“So?” Seunghyun settles his hands at Jiyong’s hips. “I’m not tired of looking at it yet.”

 

“What happens when you are?”

 

He shakes his head. “I won’t.”

 

“Liar,” Jiyong sighs.

 

“I won’t,” Seunghyun protests, eyebrows raised as high as they’ll go, that’s how serious he is. “It’s the best part of my day.”

 

All that gets him is a hardcore eye-roll, but he manages to catch Jiyong’s glowing, supernova smile right before he buries it in Seunghyun’s chest.

 

“You’re so obnoxious,” Jiyong mumbles into his tie.

 

Seunghyun’s smiling, too--pressing his nose into soft, grapefruit-scented platinum and thinking about how he still owes Eleanor a rather substantial thank you.

 

Maybe he’ll give her a painting of Boris as Frankenstein’s monster. She’d probably be super into that.


End file.
